


Another Part Of Me

by agnosticofgod



Category: Michael Jackson (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanart, Minor Supernatural/Sci-Fi Elements, Superstar!Michael, Teacher!Michael, These are two different MJs, depending on how you interpret things, plz don’t confuse them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 07:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16551938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agnosticofgod/pseuds/agnosticofgod
Summary: Michael Jackson, the biggest superstar of his era, ends up in another version of his reality: one where, despite their talent, the Jackson 5 never soared to the unbelievable level of fame that they did at home. This other Michael has an ordinary job, a wife, a family; the normal life he could never have.Michael Jackson, average school teacher from Gary, Indiana, finds himself hosting... well, himself... in his own home. Sure, this other Michael’s made some controversial choices with his life. But he’s still human enough to help, right?





	Another Part Of Me

**Author's Note:**

> I also posted this on MJFiction, for anyone who’d like reading it there more, for whatever reason.
> 
> Anyways! I have an artist called serperntinestar to thank for all the inspiration: the amazing fanart that kickstarted my obsession with this concept is on their tumblr. I’m really thankful that they gave me permission to write this, so I want to create the best fic I can. Reviews, ratings, and constructive criticism are most certainly appreciated!

EARTH-J5A8M  
OCT 1, 1992  
1:15 AM

The shrill, obnoxious wah-wah-wah-wah of the living room phone’s electronic bell jolted Michael abruptly to his senses. Wiping the salt from his eyes, he spared a glance over towards his wife, still sleeping to his right. He couldn’t help but crack a soft smile: despite how soft-spoken she was while awake, and how quietly she snored while in dreamland, there was nothing short of a full-size rock concert in their bedroom that could wake her like this.

The phone. Right. Michael grabbed his olive sweater and dashed outside the bedroom to answer the thing before it went to voicemail.

Picking up the receiver, he pressed it to his ear, uttered a quick “hello?” and sat himself down on the couch, winding the telephone cord around his fingers.

“Donna, this is Katherine.” Michael felt his eyes widen involuntarily at hearing his mother’s voice. “I need to talk to you about Michael-“

“Mother, it’s one in the morning. And why are you asking for my wife? I’m literally on the phone listening to you,” Michael responded, his manner more curt than what might have been deemed reasonable were either one of them completely awake. “Go back to sleep.”

There was a minute’s pause; Michael could hear his mother’s breathing on the other end of the line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally, “but I know Michael’s here, at my place. And he’s wearing all this...this makeup, and some kind of weave, and a fancy stage costume, and he’s acting all strange-” 

Michael cut her off with an exasperated sigh and let his voice rise from annoyance to indignation. “Mother, what the heck are you even talking about? I can’t be at two places at once-!” 

Okay. He needed to take a moment and stop his rant there before it blew up in his face and woke the kids. “Look. Right now, I am sitting on my couch, at one in the morning, on a school night, talking to you on the phone. I have never worn makeup or weave in my life, you know for a fact that I refuse to perform, and we all need to just... go back to sleep and handle whatever this is in the morning.”

And with that, he hung up the receiver and drowsily trudged his way back to his and Donna’s room, tugging his shirt back off as he went.

Shutting the door gently behind him, Michael dropped his sloppily-folded sweater back onto the rest of his clothes, then settled back into bed, rolling onto his side and tugging his side of the covers up to his chin.

Just as he was about to close his eyes, a voice behind him, still scratchy and slurred from sleep, grated out a “who was callin’ us?”

Michael rolled over to face Donna, whose deep-brown eyes had opened halfway, drowsily, to watch him. He smiled back at her, reaching forward to tuck a few escaped coils of hair back into the satin scarf wrapped around her head. “Just my mother.”

“At-“ she glanced over Michael’s shoulder to the dusty digital alarm clock behind him - “one-fifteen in the morning?”

“She had something going on.” Michael replied. “I dunno. We can check on her after work or something.”

Donna nodded minutely in acknowledgement, burrowing her way back into the covers. Michael rolled onto his back and followed her example, then let sleep pull the both of them under.

————————————————-

12:30 AM

The silence was the first thing to surprise him. 

It had been so long since Michael’s immediate surroundings weren’t saturated with clicking cameras, obnoxious reporters and their microphones, fans shouting their adoration, waving signs, passing out. And sure, the attention from his admirers was nice, but it got overwhelming after a while. Wherever he was, he just felt grateful to see an empty, silent road and a night sky with its stars not hidden under light pollution.

It was also a little surreal. Mere moments ago, he’d been beneath a stage in Bucharest, Romania, waiting for a catapult to launch him up amid pyrotechnics and the roaring of the thousands of people in the crowd below. The sights and sounds of that concert, however, would be nearly foreign to the people living in the houses on this street. Peppered all the way down, he could see smashed or boarded-up windows, rotting porches with the paint chipped clean off, and cracked sidewalks all grown over with weeds. There was no one outside, save for a few indistinct figures prowling around at the other end of the street.

Michael yanked off his Ray-Bans and hooked them onto the collar of his jacket, then dedicated himself to actively scanning the surroundings. He’d found himself in the middle of a ghetto, wearing a sparkly dance costume and leotard, no less. How was he going to find shelter for the night without getting himself hurt or killed? But now, with his glasses off, something about the layout looked familiar...

Wait.

Were his eyes messing with him, or did that chipped old street sign behind him say Jackson Street?

His head whipped, as if by instinct, towards the house standing at the corner to his left. Recognition hit. Sure, the paint job was different; sure, it wasn’t taken care of nearly as well. But this place was most certainly the house he was born in.

He was in Gary. Somehow, in some way, he’d been taken home.

That begged the question, though. How in the world did he get from Bucharest to Indiana? How quickly could he get back from here? And why did the famous former home of one of the most famous families in America suddenly look like it hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in fifteen years?

His brain froze for a few moments on that question, then Michael gathered the sense to shake himself out of it. Balking around in front of the house wouldn’t tell him anything. If he wanted any answers, he needed to look for them himself. And this beaten-up old paradox of a building was a decent place to start.

Michael vaulted his way over the chain-link fence, taking care not to accidentally rip his hundred-thousand-dollar pants, then jogged up to the window with its blinds open and peered in. 

Unlike the grimy façade, the inside appeared relatively livable. The paint and hardwood floor looked a bit scuffed up, and there were a few chips taken out of the legs of the table holding up the television, but the lot of it was all well-kept. Michael decided it wouldn’t hurt to knock on the door and question its inhabitants.

He was just about to lean off the window and move towards the door when a woman limped into the living room. She was heavyset, with high cheekbones and short, loosely curled hair. A pair of thin-framed, oval-shaped glasses rested on the bridge of her nose; when her gaze rose to Michael’s, he could tell that her eyes shared the same shade of almost-black brown as his.

Mom.

Katherine Jackson contemplated the megastar standing at her windowsill for an uncomfortably long moment, her expression weary, then reached forward and shut the blinds in his face. Thanks to the inside lights, Michael could see the silhouette of her retreating form beneath the gaps in the slats of wood.

He didn’t even have time to think what just happened before the door flew open, Katherine at the handle.

“Get in here and explain, please,” she demanded.

———————————————

Katherine all but frog-marched Michael to the kitchen table, then went around to the other side and sat down. The two stared at each other for a few painful seconds, then Michael cleared his throat.

“Look, I... all I know is, I was on tour, and I was getting ready for the opening of the show, and then I close my eyes for a second and I’m here, in Indiana.”

Katherine’s brow furrowed, then she rested her head on her right hand for a moment; inhaled, exhaled. “Okay.” Her voice came out as a gravelly whisper. “Now I’m just really confused. You - I thought you hated performing. Why in the world would you suddenly just doll yourself up and run off into the night? And that’s not even starting on your-“ she gestured to Michael’s bemused expression- “why did you paint your face white? How did your nose shrink so fast? Why is your hair so long? Just...” Katherine sighed, then brought her hands down to rest gently on the table. “Explain, Michael. Please.”

Michael could only stare back at her, until it clicked. For whatever reason, his mother had forgotten what he’d been doing for a living since he was six. And maybe he hadn’teven been doing that, wherever here was, if the fact that she was still living on Jackson Street was any indication.

“Michael, are you feeling all right?” Katherine asked. “You’re looking at me all wide-eyed.”

He shook himself out of his thoughts for the second time in the span of an hour, then took a deep breath. “I don’t think... I’m the Michael you think I am.”

Katherine’s face fell into a you have got to be kidding me look. “What in the world is that supposed to mean?” 

“I mean-“ Michael stopped himself. He barely understood this himself; he would need to choose his words carefully. “-okay. This is gonna sound a little out there, but... I think I may have landed in... some other world parallel to mine, your world. Where I don’t sing and dance and perform.”

His mother just went back to shaking her head and sighing out her nose. “Okay, I’m calling your wife. And then a doctor, because you’re very clearly out of sorts. Now stay put.”

She stood up and limped to the kitchen telephone before Michael could protest. Picking up the receiver, she dialed the number and glanced back over at Michael. Her expression conveyed I am about to fall asleep on my feet and would if you weren’t full of shenanigans tonight almost perfectly.

The low dial tone stopped. “Donna, this is Katherine. I need to talk to you about Michael-“ Katherine began, but was cut off by the person at the other end of the line. Michael could hear the faint electronic buzz of their voice from where he was sitting. He couldn’t catch what they -Donna, apparently- were saying to his mother, but was enough to elicit raised eyebrows and an even more put-out grimace.

She sighed and tried again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I know Michael’s here, at my place. And he’s wearing all this...this makeup, and a weave, and a fancy stage costume, and he’s acting real strange-” 

The buzzy voice emanating from the receiver picked up in volume. It must have been pretty intense, seeing how Katherine flinched. After a moment, her eyes narrowed, and started flitting between Michael’s face to the refrigerator in front of her. Michael could pick up the individual consonants in the voice now, and he began to recognize some of the undertones in the sound...

Katherine must have been trying to find an interruption in the monologue coming from the other end of the line, but before she could, the voice on the other end cut out. She said “Hello?” a few more times into the receiver, then hung it back up on the wall hesitantly, like she was recovering from shock.

Then she pivoted slowly on her toes to face Michael, studying him with a nervous, yet intent, stare. Michael met her gaze apprehensively, hoping to high heaven that she wasn’t going to kick him out of the house now.

“You weren’t lying,” she said finally, and he immediately relaxed, relieved. Then puzzlement hit: how would she finally figure that out from a single phone call?

Apparently, Katherine had predicted his confusion, because she gestured back to the table and limped back to her seat. Michael twisted his chair back to face her, producing what must have been the most cacophonous noise ever made at 1 in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” Katherine began. She tried to mold her features into a reassuring smile, but Michael, through experience, could read the stress and uncertainty tensing at the edges of it all. “For not believing you. I’d bet your mind is just as all-over-the place as mine is right now. The last thing you need is your own mother calling you crazy.”

“It’s okay,” Michael responded, softly and expectantly as he could manage.

She bowed her head in acknowledgement. “The thing is, when I picked up that receiver... you answered, somehow. And yes, you might have, I don’t know...messed with my phone lines or something, but you’ve been sitting here this whole time with that puzzled look on your face, so I doubt it.”

Michael nodded, biting his lip in hesitation before he spoke up again. “What do you mean by ‘I answered’, exactly?”

“I meant that the other you answered. As in, the Michael Joseph Jackson that lives in Gary and has been teaching for ten years most likely picked up the phone and thought I was crazy because...” Her eyes widened, her face lifted, she rested her fingertips on her forehead. She’d just figured something out, Michael realized. 

“I-I was talking about you instead of him this whole time.” Katherine had that look on her face similar to the ones people get when they have some sort of epiphany, but it was muted a bit, probably from the total impossibility of what she’d just comprehended.

Michael got it, he really did. This entire conundrum was a brainteaser in and of itself. No wonder the both of their intellects were all tied up in knots.

“But how do you know I’m trustworthy?” Michael pressed, concerned. As satisfying as it was for her to recognize the truth, the last thing he wanted was for his mother to save him here, then recognize whatever she’d seen in him and help the wrong person down the line. “You said it yourself, I look all... different. How’re you so sure you know what I’ve been doing with my life?” 

“I know my kids better than you think,“ Katherine replied. “And besides, if you really wanted to rob me, or assault me,” she continued, clasping her hands on the table and smiling gently, giving him something of a smug mother-knows-best look, “I don’t think you would’ve showed up in a glittery stage costume. Nor would you be wearing an incredibly expensive wireless microphone over your ear.”

Michael’s hand flew, as if by instinct, to the tip of the microphone resting next to his cheek. Huh. In the stress of getting sent to another universe and trying to prove to his mother that he wasn’t insane, he’d forgotten the thing was there.

“Anyways, I’m pretty sure you don’t have any money for a hotel on you, or any desire to stay in your stage clothes the whole time you’re in Gary. So I suppose you can sleep on my couch for tonight, then tell me what’s really going on tomorrow.” At this point, she was already at the door of the hallway closet, compiling a staggering assortment of scratchy blankets and thin, faded pillows.

Michael could only stand there, stunned at this picture of his mother, staggering under the bedclothes to the couch in her living room, not to mention the immense amount of trust and generosity displayed in the action. All he could manage to say was a soft “Mother, I... This is just...”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” she said, letting the blankets drop unceremoniously onto the couch. “You’re still making the bed.”

Michael let her step out of the way, then watched her limp towards her room before picking out the most comfortable-looking sheet and leaving the others balled up on the armrest. After setting the pillow at the head of his brand-new makeshift bed, he spread the patched-up old thing out in the air before letting it drape down to fit the shape of the couch.

As he went to follow up with a few of the thicker blankets, Katherine popped back in with a tank top and sweatpants. “You probably wouldn’t want to sleep in that costume,” she remarked, “so I found these in the depths of the closet. They might be a little loose, but they’re clean and it won’t matter if they wrinkle.”

Michael nodded in acknowledgement as he tucked the edges of a blue quilt under the couch cushions, then scooped up the articles of clothing and dashed to the bathroom. Holding them up, he realized that the top had a large, faded purple stain on the chest, and the sweatpants, which were colored a sickly shade of grey-green, had lost the cord around the waist that was meant to keep it snug to your hips. But Katherine was right; they were washed, and they fit surprisingly well for garments so weathered.

He was about to leave the bathroom when he remembered all the eyeliner and lipstick on his face. Ugh. The last thing he wanted to do was wake up in the morning looking like a monster from a horror movie. He rushed to the nearly-empty container of wipes resting on the windowsill to his left, ripped out a few, then began the arduous task of rubbing away at his stage makeup.

Katherine had disappeared by the time he’d unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out. The only other change in the living room was a plastic coat hanger on the back of the rocking chair - presumably meant for him to hang his costume up with, Michael realized. He unfolded his balled-up jacket and leotard, took down the hangar, and resolved himself to finagling with the garments until they both fit on the thing. After buttoning up the both of them and hooking them back over the rocking chair, he strode over to the couch, plopped down, and committed himself to staring at the ceiling until his overactive brain let him drift off.


End file.
